living in the flow of it all.

the fact that it's so normal for disabled people to be told that abled people would kill themselves if they were disabled is so fucking disgusting

i don't "date" and i don't "chill" and i don't "hang out." i make pacts. i swear oaths. i forge unbreakable bonds. this makes me a cool breezy person to take on road trips et cetera

when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. when all you have is a paintbrush, everything looks like a canvas. when all you have is a cock, everything looks like the exhaust pipe of a 2014 honda civic. so yes, to answer your question, i am stuck. please call the emergency services

Not having a traditional job or plans to get an education will have people asking you things like so what is the purpose of you staying alive?

tryna ponder ur orbs for the rest of my life

*me, literally sick with want* whatever

DPC and DPL.  Dead People’s Clothes and Dead People’s Leather. Their toys, their paintings of half naked, naked, screwing men.  The statues.  The leather.  The sling.  The posters.  The … all of it. We’d literally Straighten homes.  Depending.  Some families knew and were fine. Or more ok.  But pictures of other guys on phones was the least of it. I have… leather that’s been passed through three or four men who’ve died before getting to me.  They’re the heirlooms now, passed down chosen families.   Sometimes there were crews.  We’d show up as soon as possible, as a unit.  We’d hit the bedrooms first.  Clear out closets, under beds, bedsides.  We’d donate, throw out, take mementos.  Pass on.  Secret lives and secret, us only treasures.   Then we’d leave.  For some family’s you never talked about it.  They never knew.  It was better all around.   I have vests, gloves.  A belt.  Arm bands.  Paintings.  T-shirts.  Photos, undeveloped film that’d I’m still somewhat terrified to try to get developed (lol).  We live on in the living rooms of others.

Transcription: So back in the late 80s and early 90s, when I was 20 and there was another friend dying of AIDS like every three weeks. Yeah, seriously those days were terrible. Young gay men now will just never know what it was like. But when a friend would die we would ALL know exactly what to do. We’d get to their houses as fast as possible (most of us already had a key) and we would know EXACTLY where the smut was, we would know EXACTLY where the stuff they didn’t want their family to find. We would get it and we would destroy it. OR we would keep it for ourselves if it was cool, or we would donate it to…something. I dunno. It’s kind of a messed up memory, but uh, back then we all just had to have each other’s backs and uuh, yeah. This video just reminded me of that.